The Craftsman (15 page)

She was exhausted and covered in unpleasant liquids, but the satisfaction of a task well done overcame all that. Through the door she watched the proud parents kiss. Devaux examined his newborn offspring with pride and amazement, holding them both in his arms and laughing as if he’d never had a moment’s doubt or fear. Deorwynn looked tired, her eyes puffy, her hair spilled untidily over her shoulders, but she was joyous, excited, her head resting on her husband’s shoulder as she too marveled at the cause of all her recent suffering. The pains were all forgiven now and soon to be forgotten.

Emma swallowed a disastrous lump in her throat and walked back to her chamber. That tremendous state of joy would never be hers to feel and she couldn’t afford to dwell upon it. They wouldn’t want her mawkish face hanging about to spoil these precious moments. Alone in her chamber, she changed out of her filthy gown and left it for Joan to burn. There was no point taking it with her to the convent. She would need only a very few, simple garments now. The less she carried of her former life the better. Joan, she’d already decided, must stay here with these people. She could help Deorwynn with the children. None of the other women here seemed to have much experience and men were next to useless when it came to such things. They made the babes and then became completely nonplussed by their existence.

All that remained was to say goodbye to Wulf and ask if she might borrow a horse and groom to escort her to the convent. She couldn’t very well sneak away like a thief could she?

Crossing the deserted great hall, she encountered Amias of York and Sybilia Bonnenfant, who arrived belatedly to “assist” the birth. Today she brought her own child for the viewing, although a sour-faced nurse carried it for her, suffering the child’s pokes and screams while its mother drew Emma aside and whispered that she’d heard of the dreadful mistake. Already she had drawn Amias into her confidence.

“At least it can be put to right now,” she added with mock concern. “Now that the rightful woman has come. And you, Emma, won’t wish to be a burden on Raedwulf, since you cannot give him children. Guy told Thierry you are barren.” She looked over at her own plump, noisy child. “It is all we are needed for in this world, unfortunately. Glad I am that I was able to give my husband a son. He never wanted me for anything more than that.” Then she cast her eyes back over Emma and her lips turned up in a sly sneer. “And he has plenty of whores for his other, less important needs.” Her arrow successfully aimed and shot, Sybilia continued on her way, drawing Amias along by the arm and gesturing for the nurse to keep up.

This was her vengeance of course, for Emma not being drawn into the friendship she’d offered. She was quick to show her allegiance to the new arrival—a younger woman she could easily influence and weave into her web.

Emma watched them leave, their steps echoing on the stone steps, the child’s cries beating about inside her head until it ached as much as her heart.

Perhaps it would be best not to say goodbye to Wulf after all. In her current state she feared embarrassing herself with a foolish display of emotion and regret, when that would do no one any good. Her hands, she realized, were shaking. She must be tired after the long night sitting with Deorwynn. That could be the only reason for her tremors and the sadness piling upon her. She was simply overwrought.

It had been a pleasant fantasy living there for a few days. Now it was over, as she’d always known it would be, sooner or later. Nothing this good lasted forever. She should have told them the truth when she realized a mistake had occurred; instead she’d gone on with the deception—tried to keep dreaming.

But real life had crept in and jolted her well awake now.

Chapter Eleven

Thierry swung open the door of the workshop and stormed in. “What the Devil’s going on? Why is Emma leaving?”

Wulf put down his chisel. He began to think about getting a lock fitted on the shed door. “She wants to leave. I can’t make her stay.” He thought Thierry was probably only concerned about his own needs anyway. “It’s a mistake that she was sent here.”

The other man stared hard at him. “Are you certain it was a mistake? Perhaps fate brought her to you for a reason.”

He wiped his hands on a rag and laughed carelessly, although it caught in his throat and died there too soon. “If you want her, you go after her, Bonnenfant.”

Thierry shook his head, his eyes like flint. “Don’t you fight for anything, Raedwulf?” There was silence. Even the dogs outside in the yard had temporarily ceased their noise.

“Amias of York is her cousin, by the way,” Thierry added.

Another pause. Thierry walked to the door and opened it. “I came to tell you I’m going away. The King is sending me on a mission back to Normandy. I don’t know when I’ll return.”

Wulf raised an eyebrow. “You’re going home?”

“No. This is my home now, remember. We Normans are here to stay.” Then he chuckled dourly. “Don’t forget that Saxon.”

In the next breath he was gone. Wulf heard him shouting merrily to the soldiers as he strode across the yard and the dogs resumed their usual ruckus.

He threw his rag down and rested his knuckles on the edge of the workbench.

So Amias of York was her cousin. In which case, Emma must have known almost from the beginning, when his sister called her Amias and they all talked of York. Why would she continue the pretense?

There was nothing in it for her. Except him. But why would a woman go to such lengths to keep him?

It seemed incredible that she could be in love with him. Perhaps, he thought wryly, it was merely his tackle she fell in love with.

Yet he was in love with her, wasn’t he? He’d felt hollow inside since he heard she was leaving him. He couldn’t even keep his mind on his work and usually that was his savior whenever the outside world tried to intrude on his peaceful, uncluttered life.

Now he’d let her go.

Don’t you fight for anything, Raedwulf?

* * * *

The Mother Superior showed her to a small chamber with a narrow, barred window. A grey sky tried to peek in, but only a few thin shafts of light managed to permeate the dim interior. The only furniture was a narrow pallet and a tall, iron candle holder. The stone walls were cold and thick. Just touching them with her hand as she passed, made Emma feel as if she was being lowered into a dark grave.

“Any personal possessions will be taken from you and distributed to the poor and sick. You won’t need them here.”

“Of course.” She looked around, trying to find something to cheer her spirits. “You may take the two coffers I brought with me.”

The Mother Superior glowered at her. “Clothing too. You won’t need any fine gowns here. It is important to shed all material trappings.”

She stripped down to her shift, handing her garments to the two nuns who stood patiently and silently waiting.

“You are now a novice nun and you will dress as one. Someone will bring you the appropriate robe shortly—I don’t know what has become of Sister Adela, but I am assured she is on her way with it. She will take you to prayer.”

Standing barefoot, shivering slightly in her thin shift, Emma watched them leave with her things and close the door with a solid thunk. Silence.

She sat on the pallet, arms wrapped around herself, her heart heavy as lead. The mold and damp already crept into her bones. Soon she would be one with this place. Emma would vanish completely.

Fighting the urge to weep, she closed her eyes tight. For some reason she pictured a sunny day and sparks of light dancing playfully over a stream. She could feel and smell the long grass surrounding her as she sat on the bank and threaded daisies for a chain. Birds chirped and the water bubbled lushly over rocks near her bare toes. The sun warmed her face and a timid breeze lifted a curl of hair on her shoulder.

As if sleep-walking, she moved to that small window, clutched the bars and peered out. Nothing but sky. The angle of the window did not allow for a view of the ground below.

Panic stirred in her breast, but something else soon raced ahead of it.

She spun a round, flung open her door and ran, pushing aside the startled nun who had come to bring her the “proper” robe. Never had she run so fast in her life—or barefoot.

“I am Raedwulf of Wexford,” she heard him bellowing. “And I am here to take my wife back where she belongs.”

As Emma came out through the main door, she saw him arguing with the Mother Superior, who had bravely approached his steaming, snorting stallion and tried to make him leave the premises.

His eyes were hot, pinned to her, unblinking. Suddenly remembering she was in her shift, she quickly crossed her arms and backed up into the shadow of the great arched door.

Breathless, she ducked away from him behind a stone pillar and he cursed as he stubbed his toe. “Go home and marry Amias,” she gasped, hands bunched in her shift. “She can give you children. I can’t. I’m barren.”

“Did I ever once tell you that mattered to me, wench?”

It was true. He hadn’t. “But it should matter,” she yelled, desperate.

Suddenly he stopped chasing her around the pillar and leaned one arm against it, apparently getting his breath back. “I don’t care if you can’t give me a son. I only want you,” he muttered.

She didn’t know what to say to that. The panic had gone, but goose-bumps pricked all over her body and when he raised his dark gaze to her face again it only got worse—every inch of her on pins and needles.

Without warning he lunged, grabbed her around the waist and lifted her over his shoulder. Kicking and cursing at the indignity, she was carried out to his horse, while all the nuns, in uproar, tried to beat at him with sticks, hands, shoes—anything they had near.

Raedwulf of Wexford was unstoppable, however, and bore their attack as if it was no more than a few gnat bites. He swung her up onto his horse and then mounted behind her.

They galloped through the convent gates in a cloud of dust.

“Did you think I’d let you leave me?” he demanded, as she clutched at him to save herself from falling and being crushed beneath the horse’s hooves.

Her heart beat was still charging recklessly forward, taking her breath away. “I’m glad you came for me. Even if you’ll be sorry later.”

He sighed, shaking his head. “Is that the best you can do, surly ingrate?”

“What do you mean?”

With the fingers of one hand he grabbed her chin and lifted it, making her look into her eyes. “I didn’t know Normans were such cowards that they couldn’t admit their feelings.”

She bristled at that. “How dare you?”

He tightened his hold on her chin and kissed her again, his tongue sweeping over her lips and then between. “I love you, Emma. I loved you the first time I watched you eat cherries. I’d never envied a piece of fruit in my life until then.”

Astonished by this ardent declaration, she felt quite limp in his arms. Men weren’t supposed to say soppy things like that.

Henry, of course, had shown her in many small ways that he loved her. But he’d never said it. He’d never had to say it, because he’d never feared she might leave. Henry had never doubted that she knew her place.

But Raedwulf had no such expectations of his wife. He made no demands on her, even from the beginning. He had no rules for her.

“I only want to go on loving you as long as I live,” he said softly, looking down at her with so much smoldering heat in his gaze that she thought he’d melt her shift.